i found the cure to growing old
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: Sometimes, Phil thinks he's too old for this shit. in which everyone's a teacher; the kids are punks, Hydra Prep is edging onto their level of excellence, and there's a rumor going around that the school is in danger of being shut down. Just another week at Shield Academy.
1. prologue

**excerpt from Shield Academy's brochure (2013)**

Shield Academy, founded in 1945 by Margaret Carter and Howard Stark, is a college preparatory school for the academically gifted. Teachers are selected from a pool of the most talented, from across the globe. Students are educated in many advanced fields such as biochemistry, metaphysics, computer engineering, communications, as well as one of the leading liberal arts programs in the nation.

**excerpt from anonymous blog, detailing the rivalry between Shield Academy and Hydra Prep (2007)**

Hydra Preparatory, founded in 1931 by Johann Schmidt (who is rumored to have been a Nazi sympathizer), is known as the underbelly of the academic world—at least in the tri-state area. Consistently producing sociopaths and psychopaths who, if not eventual arrested for some brutal crime, go on to head some of the biggest Fortune-500 companies on the Eastern seaboard.

Their quarrel with Shield Academy, the only other rigorous academic college preparatory in the area that is equal to Hydra, is well known and well documented. Spanning decades, their students have always found ways to antagonize and one up their counterparts. When Shield opened at a coed school, Hydra pushed through new regulations to allow female students to enroll at a discounted tuition. When Hydra won the championship football game in 1999, Shield students vandalized the school and stole their mascot, an octopus named, in a move of startling originality, Hydra. Hydra the cephalopod was never seen again. With Hydra alum Grant Ward ('01) joining Shield's faculty (see: /hydra-betrayal) this coming year is sure to be interesting.

Stay tuned.


	2. Chapter 1

**disclaimed.**

**so theres a lot of back and forth between "BEFORE" and "AFTER" so sorry and have fun!**

**thanks xoxo**

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

* * *

><p>Friday, April 25th, 2014<p>

From: sspcoulson

To: sshsfaculty , ssmsfaculty , sslsfaculty , ssadministration

Subject: LOCKDOWN

Enact protocols seven, three, and thirty. Hydra hacked us. Sensitive data leaked. Unnecessary personnel has been asked to leave campus until we get a handle on this. Fury has been compromised.

* * *

><p>From: sssward<p>

To: sspcoulson  
>Bcc: ssgward , ssjsimmons , sslfitz , ssmmay<p>

Subject: RE: LOCKDOWN

How bad?

* * *

><p>From: sspcoulson<p>

To: sssward

Subject: RE: RE: LOCKDOWN

No more emails. They may have breached the secure server. Text me.


	3. Chapter 2

**disclaimed**

* * *

><p>Wednesday, September 17th, 2014<p>

...

"Fitz, could you help me for a moment? In the lounge?"

His class giggles, and a few boys whistle in the back, to which Fitz responds with an order to read chapter four of their texts before following her out of the classroom. "The copy's jammed again," Jemma begins, keeping a brisk pace. "I thought you might be able to, ah—?"

He's already rolling up his sleeves.

The teacher's lounge is mostly empty, but Skye looks up from her laptop and grins when they walk in. "Hey, lovebirds," she greets, back to staring at the screen in front of her. "Ward just called down to maintenance."

"Well, tell him to cancel the call," Fitz grumbles, lowering himself to the ground and peering at the opened up machine. "Save Billy the time."

"Didn't Coulson tell you to stop messing with school property?"

"I'm not _messing_ with it—," Jemma reaches out towards him as he grouses, patting his head a tad awkwardly. She knows how he gets when Skye provokes him. "I'm _improving_."

"Well," Skye compromises, "I'll call maintenance, but if you think that thing is going to blow, I need fifteen seconds warning, _at least_." She adds as an afterthought, "And if Coulson finds out about this, I was not here to witness it."

Fitz ignores her, but Jemma makes a point to nod her consent to the terms, even though they all know that Coulson won't believe any of them.

Whatever.

Jemma's got a class that begins in twenty minutes and one hundred and forty copies to make, so she'll take her chances.

...

The copier doesn't explode—the puff of black smoke it expelled was only an excess of ink Fitz promises a wary Skye, who sits clutching her laptop to her chest, ready to escape the room at a moment's notice.

"I swear to god, Fitz if that shit blows up—."

"He's done!" Jemma exclaims, smiling brightly at her friend. "Aren't you, Fitz?"

"Almost. I just have to—." He grunts in surprise, and even before he stands Jemma can see the ink stain spreading across the front of his shirt. "Done," he adds sheepishly.

Ward wanders in then, eyes on the stack of papers in his hands, tapping a red pen on the corner. He stops briefly to kiss the crown of his wife's head before continuing on to coffee machine. He's nearly done making his drink when he glances up. "What the hell?"

"Simmons needed—."

"The copy machine—."

"I _told _them it'd be a bad idea—."

"Didn't Coulson tell you to stop messing with school property?"

"That's what I said!" Skye grins smugly at the ink-stained man, dancing out of the room singing, "Told you so!"

"Wait—," Ward calls after her, to be responded to with a distant, "Got a class, I'll see you later!"

Fitz turns to Jemma then, and asks, only half-jokingly, "What does she even teach?"

"Advanced tech. And art." Ward stares at the door longingly, his face too much like a puppy's for the pair to not laugh. It's like he doesn't go home with her or something. There is silence; one beat, two, three, and then Ward jogs out.

The remaining two stare at each other for a moment, before Fitz offers, "I can help with the copies, yeah?" Grinning, Jemma lunges forward and kisses his cheek.

...

Phil finds the metaphysics class—_period two, tenth grade, high level, where the hell is Fitz?_—unattended. They aren't doing anything; it looks like one of the girls appointed herself leader and is seated at the front, eyes flicking up from her textbook every few moments to survey the class. No one's bleeding or crying or having sex. But—still.

Continuing down the hallway, he passes Skye and Ward, talking quietly in front of the lockers. "Hey boss man," she greets, leaning away from her husband for the moment.

"Fitz?" He'd usually stop to talk, but—priorities. Skye jerks her thumb down the hall, towards the teacher's lounge, and he continues on, glancing into the windows of the other classrooms.

Nat is teaching her class some type of yoga, when they should really be practicing conjugations, but—battles. Pick your battles, Phil. The fact that he ignores it has everything to do with that, and nothing to do with the sneaking suspicion he has that Natasha could kill him, if she wanted to.

Melinda's study hall is studying, which is expected. He has yet to meet a student that would willfully disobey Melinda May, but he figures that one day there will be, and he'll probably end up hiring the kid at some point. Because _he _wouldn't even want to cross Melinda, and he's the principal.

Barton's—dancing? Teaching? Who knows! Not his problem, today, Phil decides. Maybe tomorrow. And then—

the lounge.

Back before, when Fury was still principal, there had been a rule about admin being blocked from the lounge. But then everything happened with Hydra, and Nick left, and Phil found it prudent to do away with the rule. He was running Shield now, and needed to know his teachers and have his teachers know him.

The lounge isn't pretty—the school is filthy rich, but the money is funneled right back into the students; new programs keep being added and new technology demanded, so a new microwave for the lounge isn't exactly top priority. And Fitz keeps taking it upon himself to update everything anyway, so it's—it's fine.

The coffee stains on the wall are fine.

Speaking of Fitz—Phil finds him attached to Simmons's side, dutifully holding a stack of papers for her as she makes her copies. "You've got a class?" he reminds, folding his arms, only a little cross. They're like bunny rabbits, those two. Science bunny rabbits. With matching sweater sets.

Fitz looks up, startled, "Oh, ah, yes, sir. But Shelley's good, supervising and all—."

That's when Phil notices the ridiculous ink stain on his shirt.

"Did you mess with the copy machine?"

He might be shrieking. Maybe he's shrieking.

But that shit cost six hundred dollars the school really didn't have, and if that Scottish grump broke it—.

"Why does everyone say I _mess_ with things? I don't mess—," Fitz starts indignantly.

"No, of course you don't Fitz," Simmons soothes, hand on his arm. "You improve them."

"It's—," Phil splutters. "You've got ink all over your shirt, your class is unattended—!"

"Shelley!"

"Shelley is fifteen."

"Sixteen, actually," Simmons supplies.

Phil sighs.

Pick your battles.

"How many more copies?"

Fitz looks to Simmons. "Thirty, sir," she blurts, only kept from squeaking by sheer willpower.

"I—." He really should reprimand them. Write them up or something. But—

science bunnies. Woodland creatures. It might be illegal to yell at woodland creatures. Sighing, Phil settles on this. "Finish the copies. I'll give a pop quiz on…chapter three?"

"And four." Fitz looks intensely relieved—_like I could actually do anything,_ Phil thinks, only a little bitter. They're really very cute.

He leaves them to it—almost double backs when he hears them start talking in rapid half-sentences, because, like, how _cool_ would it be to study them—but then he reminds himself that they're not actually fluffy animals, but people (supposedly adults).

He continues on. The class only hates him a little when he barges in and announces the quiz.


	4. Chapter 3

**this is pure crack i have no excuses**

**disclaimed**

* * *

><p>Friday, September 19th, 2014<p>

* * *

><p>Phil is going to fucking die.<p>

Stark let his seventh graders set a table on fire. In the middle of the motherfucking goddamn pick up loop. On Phil's hydrangeas. His fucking _hydrangeas_. _On fire. _And, like, he can't hurt the kids? Because they're literally twelve, but he sure as hell can hurt Stark.

He's going to have a fucking heart attack.

"What the—?!" Melinda follows him out, and he hears the science bunnies chattering somewhere behind them. God, everyone's going to see this. It's in the middle of the goddamn _pick up loop. _

He shudders to think about what will happen if it makes the news. What if Hydra gets a hold of the story? What if the _board_ does? He starts planning his letter of resignation.

"_Stark_!" His voice has hit an octave that, until now, he was unaware existed.

"Hey, Boss," Stark starts, whirling around. The students freeze because, angry principal, you know? At least they're afraid of him. Stark just levels this shit eating grin at him, and—Melinda's—

Melinda might be growling, but that also might just be him. He's going to _kill_ Stark.

Stepping in front of the fire—like that's going to hide it—Tony Stark grins widely and raises his hands, placating, "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you set _my hydrangeas on fire!_"

"Woah, okay, I think dogs everywhere just cringed—."

"Anthony Stark—!"

"Okay, yes, it seems that this is exactly what it looks like. But look! Fire safety!" He points behind him. There's a thirteen year old that looks about seven covered in what look like pot holders, holding a fire extinguisher. The school is getting shut down, for sure.

Fucking shit.

Phil squeezes the bridge of his nose. He can actually feel wrinkles forming. Gray hairs growing. He's going to die. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

Stark grins again—oh, he totally thinks he's getting away with this; where the hell is Vic, she's better at yelling at people—and, "Teaching the kids about combustible materials. Very educational."

"Combustible—?!"

He's sputtering.

_Sputtering._

Melinda tugs him away, steps in front, and Phil sees Stark flinch. Good. Vic comes running up, then, and she's fucking fuming and Stark's dead. Totally dead. The pot-holder kid extinguishes the flames and runs for it when he sees Head Security Officer Hand charging him. Smart kid.

When Melinda spots Vic, she steps away and steers him back towards the admin building. He can hear Stark rambling behind him, can hear a shriek, and he glances back just in time to see the seventh graders scattering, scrambling for cover, sees Victoria twisting Stark's ear and dragging him away and then—

that's sort of when everything goes to shit.

**...**

Once the firemen leave, teachers start leading their kids back to class, and Phil sits among the ruins of his garden. Natasha pats his head affectionately and leaves to help Vic drag He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named down to the security office.

Skye materializes next to him and Phil only spares a glance before he resumes staring at his burnt flowers in abject horror and grief. It took him six years for them to look so good.

Six.

Years.

His _fucking hydrangeas. _Of all things. What if he sets Stark's—no. Arson is a felony. But—

_his fucking hydrangeas._

"May told me to bring you in when you started to look like you were about to cry." Phil stares at Skye. "You look like you're about to cry," she elaborates, shifting her weight.

"My hydrangeas," Phil croaks. He is literally holding ashes in his hands. He stares at his palms. Stares at Skye. "My—."

"Hydrangeas. I know, boss man. It's hard." She helps him stand, carefully turning his hands over and sending his flowers' ashes to the ground. "Maybe you should talk to Sam?"

She's probably joking, but Phil is totally going to do that. After he cries in his office for a bit. Okay, he plans on crying for the rest of the day.

_His fucking hydrangeas._

**...**

Maria is not here for angry, rich, white parents to call and bitch about the minor explosion on campus. As vice-principal, she is supposed to wander the halls and scare kids into getting to class on time and respecting the dress code. Not—

"No, I know Mrs. Brigg."

"_We pay twenty thousand in tuition to ensure that this sort of stuff doesn't happen!_"

"I understand, ma'am; this was an unfortunate accident—."

"_It sounds more like negligence, if you ask me!_"

Maria reaches over to mute the phone call. _No one fucking asked you, Patrice. _Leaning back in her chair, she sighs. Phil's in the next office, sobbing; Mel is running damage control. She thinks that Tori is probably yelling at Stark about endangering the students, the school, and his job. God, they're all a hot mess.

"_Ms. Hill, Shield's lack of care is appalling and—_."

Closing her eyes, Maria breathes in deeply before she reaches out and unmutes the headset. "I know, Mrs. Brigg. It is unfortunate."

**...**

Hydra gets a hold of the story. God knows how, but they do. And that means that the media gets a hold of the story.

They lose half the kindergarten class, and a handful of seventh graders, and Tony has the decency to look ashamed.

Phil builds a shrine (_"It's not a shrine, Skye, it's a memorial—"_) to his hydrangeas.

It's only a little weird.


End file.
